


Hearts for the lovers, cards for the gamblers

by gutrots



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bickering, Burns, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, HYDRA Husbands, Haircuts, M/M, Not Beta Read, Old Married Couple, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Tattoos, just shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Black Flag bars for the punks, sailing ships for the ramblers.Brock goes out for a long overdue haircut and gets a tattoo while at it because that's how life works sometimes.





	Hearts for the lovers, cards for the gamblers

'Your hair needs cut' Jack announces from where he's stretched out on the sofa, worn paperback in one hand, the other absent-mindedly running through greasy, dark strands.

Brock doesn't bother replying, steadfastly focused on his current task. He's sat on the rug, a disassembled Barret M82 laid out in front of him. It's a part of the stash Jack keeps for real bad times, a big, mean thing just like the man himself. Years ago Brock would've made entirely too many jabs about _compensating_ , but he's known for quite some time now that Jack really doesn’t need compensating for.

He inspects each piece, cleaning and reattaching, trying to get his burned fingers used to precise tasks again. It's frustrating, small bits slipping and falling to the rug, ruining the puzzle, but Jack's hand on his scalp helps, petting and scratching like Brock is an overgrown housecat.

Jack tugs at the long strands on top of Brock's head, runs his fingers through the coarse sides. Without any product to hold it in place, Brock's hair is a mess, strands sticking up wildly or falling flat onto his forehead. Undeterred by the scarring, Jack traces the outline of a melted ear and the webbing of burns sprawling along Brock's brow bone, Brock huffing a content sigh as fingers scratch underneath his chin, through overgrown stubble threatening to descend down his neck.

Brock is easily tempted into affection these days, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head backwards into the touch, half-assembled rifle forgotten. Pride cast aside a long time ago, he basks in the attention until the spell is broken with a pinch to a fuzzy cheek.

'Whatever happened to the vain fucker I married?' Jack muses, fingers pulling at the bristly hair at Brock's nape.

'Not sure, got smacked in the face with a fuckton of burning rubble and turned into a pile of medium rare hamburger meat?' These days Brock’s venom is aimed only at himself, and no matter how much he tries to turn it into humor, Jack refuses to entertain it. Especially considering that despite the thick web of scars sprawling over the left side of his body Brock is just like he always used to be, all sharp cheekbones and amber eyes and roguish smiles that have Jack wrapped around his finger.

'Bullshit. You're still handsome. You let yourself go, is all. Think just 'cos we're settled down and you got me whipped into shape, that means you don't have to make any effort, do you, mister Rollins-Rumlow?' Jack inquires, punctuating his words with a tug to Brock's hair, unkempt strands peppered with silver tangling in his fingers.

'Lies, Jackie, filthy lies' Brock moans, mock-offence betrayed by how he moves in closer and straightens his back, asking to be touched. 'Hate to admit that but if anything it's you who made me your bitch. Spoiled me rotten and got me all fucked up.' Despite his complains, Brock seems entirely too content where he is. 'And sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but I really ain't handsome anymore' he declares, no bashfulness to his words, just mundane realism.

Jack sighs, hesitant to poke at a sore spot yet again. Not willing to let Brock have the last word on the issue, he settles for a brief 'Yeah you are. And I love you.'

'I'm tired of getting beard burn on my ass whenever you go down on me though, so do something about that' he adds, fingers rubbing at Brock's scruff.

Brock tilts his head upwards, staring at Jack while he considers his options. 'Like what?' he ponders, clearly discontent with the conclusion he's reached. 'Stop going down on you?'

'You wouldn't' Jack states, knowing well that despite all their years together Brock still has trouble keeping his hands to himself for any measure of time. 'There's a barber two towns down the i-15, in Dillon. Wyatt should still work there. Old man, won't ask too many questions.'

'Y'know I don't like going out' Brock mumbles, taking unfair advantage of the fact that Jack has always been entirely too patient with him.

'I do. And you know I'd fix you up myself if I could. Don't wanna hurt you though.'

Brock barks a laugh. 'As if that'd make any sorta difference.' He tugs at Jack’s hand, brings it to his lips and presses kisses to mangled fingers, showing that he clearly doesn’t mind.

Jack’s palm slides out of Brock’s grip and there's a pinch to the sharp point of his jaw, Jack clearly fed up with the self-depreciation.

'Fuck off. You're gorgeous, but the scruff has got to go.' He tilts Brock's chin upwards, so that his head is resting against couch cushions, and he stares Brock down, one green eye wide open and a shy smile on his lips, as he mutters the dreaded 'C'mon, do it for me.'

Brock stubbornly refuses to take the bait. 'And I though you loved me just the way I was' he says, fully aware that he's fighting dirty with the guilt trip.

'I do, you manipulative asshole. Now stop using my words against me and go get yourself cleaned up.' Jack's stern voice is a contrast to how soft his fingers feel as they trace Brock's bottom lip. 'I miss seeing you all done up and pretty for me.’

Brock pulls away from Jack's touch, looks down to the disassembled rifle spread out on the floor. He can't decide if he loves or hates the fact that Jack has always been the one to see right through his reckless bravado and constant posturing, the same way he see through the way Brock forces himself to wear his scars with pragmatic ease, shame and regret eating away at his insides.

He's always been a contrary bastard though so he's not letting Jack have this one.

'Trust me, all this comes off' he explains, head tilted again so Jack can get a good look at his patchy beard 'and it's gonna get real fucking ugly.'

'Whatever, I want all that ugly between my legs as soon as possible and I don't want my thighs rubbed raw.' Jack makes his point by spreading his legs just a little, and Brock can't help himself. Jack's wearing only a t-shirt and boxers, and there's pale skin and soft fuzz and botched surgery scars on full display.

As quickly as he can, Brock turns around, braces himself on the sofa cushions, and lunges forward. He manages to steal a bite at the inside of Jack's left thigh before he is reprimanded with a half-hearted smack up the head.

'The fuck did I just say? You get yourself sorted out first and then we'll talk' Jack grumbles, annoyed rather than amused.

Defeated, Brock backs away, keeping his hands on Jack's legs, fingers rubbing circles into firm muscle and soft hair. 'C'mon, don't be like that, Jackie' he pleads, pressing a kiss to Jack's knee. 'Want you.'

'And I want you to take better care of yourself' Jack states, seemingly unaffected by Brock’s hands steadily inching their way up his thighs.

Eager to set the issue aside for the time being, Brock settles for a ‘Fine, I'll see what I can do.’

'But only if I can blow you. Now’ he adds after a minute of pondering, and Jack pulls him up onto the sofa and between his legs, Brock's wet kisses a contrast to the scrape of overgrown stubble against delicate skin.

* * *

  
It's late by the time Brock makes it back to the cabin, sun starting to set behind the mountain ridge. Jack greets him by the door, concern etched in worry lines on his face, slowly melting away into relief when Brock appears unharmed and well.

'Took you long enough' he observes as they make their way into the kitchen, Jack setting a kettle on the gas stove, preparing two mugs and tea.

'Sorry, barber got scared the moment I walked in, took a while to coax him out of the back room.’

'Bullshit. If we still lived in DC, maybe. Locals here really aren’t the type be scared by the likes of you' Jack states as he slices into a baked cheesecake he's prepared during Brock’s absence, a treat to reward Brock’s grumbling and complaining. 'Besides, if I know Wyatt well enough, there’s a nasty twenty gauge sawed-off still tucked under the counter by the till. And he’s always had very decent aim.'

'Wouldn't be the first time I had a shotgun pointed at my face. People round here are fucking mean, Jackie.’

'Like you’re the one to talk' Jack replies with a smirk as the kettle whistles and he pours water into the mugs. Tea left to steep, he mutters a _c'mere_ and pulls Brock in by the belt loops, away from the counter and into the warm glow of the pendant lamp hanging above the dining table.

Brock can’t help but straighten his back and put his best roguish smile on as Jack grabs him by the chin, running his fingers through neatly trimmed stubble. Jack’s hand glides across the close-shaven hair on the side of Brock’s head, and he doesn’t dare muss the longer strands, slick with pomade and styled to perfection.

Obviously pleased, Jack steals a brief kiss, 'You look good' muttered against Brock's lips.

'So what, am I back in your good graces now that I'm all pretty again?’ Brock inquires, intentions obvious as he winds his arms around Jack’s neck, leaning up for another kiss.

'You’ve always been pretty. And in good graces more often than not.' Jack moves his hands up from Brock's hips, fingers sneaking their way underneath the hem of his t-shirt. Brock is sensitive there, on his flank, just below the ribs, but not enough to explain the sudden wince of pain and a hissed _Aw fuck_ as Brock pulls away from Jack’s embrace.

Jack tries to contain the rapidly encroaching panic, reasoning with himself that even Brock wouldn’t be able to conceal a serious injury in that area. ‘What's this now? Wyatt really shanked you with a straight razor when you showed up at the shop, didn’t he? One time I make you go out on your own' Jack inquires, careful not to spook Brock, knowing how defensive he can get when called out on things Jack would rather not see him do.

However, Brock doesn’t seem upset at all. If anything, he looks disappointed, head hanging low and warm light reflecting off the pomade in his hair.

'Way to fucking ruin the reveal, Jackie. Should've told you to keep yer paws to yourself' he mutters, and Jack has no idea what any of that means, not until Brock pulls his t-shirt up and off, revealing tan skin marred with a sprawl of burn marks, pockmark scars of bullet wounds and jagged lines of knife slashes, a stray hickey or two blossoming purple on his chest.

There’s something new there too, a sizeable square of gauze and Saran wrap attached to the skin with surgical tape. Brock picks at the tape with blunt fingernails, and Jack asks a quiet _Let me_ when it refuses to come off.

Despite his missing fingers he makes quick work of the tape, accustomed to patching all kinds of scrapes and bruises on Brock. Gently, he pulls away the gauze and wrap, and his hands still as he reveals what’s underneath.

Nestled between thick ropes of scar tissue extending below Brock’s ribcage is a tattoo. The design is large and colorful, an anatomical heart surrounded by blossoming roses. The outline is thick and the shading vivid, the red of rose petals and blue of arteries standing out against Brock’s olive skin.

Hesitantly, Jack reaches out his fingers, and Brock gives a nod of consent, all discomfort forgotten in favor of the fascinated look in Jack’s one green eye.

Jack's fingers glide along the outline of the heart, skin still swollen and slick with ointment, following the rose thorns into valleys created by raised lines of scars. He traces the veins and arteries, smiling to himself as he encounters a jagged _J+B_ , designed to look like it had been carved into the heart with a pocket knife, the way Brock once did on a pine behind the cabin, ten years younger, plenty drunk and very in love.

Jack breaks the near-reverent silence with an incredulous ‘Where the fuck did you get that?'

'Been a while since you've been to Wyatt's, hasn’t it? Turns out it’s been a couple slow months and he sublets half the shop to a tattoo artist now. Got the designs all posted up in the window and whatnot.'

'So you went and got yourself inked just because that was there?'

'Spur of the moment kinda thing, you know?' Brock huffs a laugh. 'Actually no, you wouldn’t, you pedantic bastard’ he jokes, no malice to it.

‘Do you like it?’ Brock asks with a shy smile.

'It's gorgeous. You’re getting sappy in your old age though.’

'Fuck off, I ain’t old and the tattoo ain’t sappy. There was blood and all.’

'Don’t care. Still sappy. I like it though.’ Gently, Jack presses his fingers to the tender skin, traces the outline of the design just to show he means it.

'You'd better, 'cos I'm stuck with it for good. Ain’t no way anyone’s gonna fit a cover up on this mess' Brock says, patting the scarred tissue on his side.

'That's good, because you’re stuck with me too' Jack concludes, hands leaving the tattoo and moving to cup Brock's face, ready to pull him in for a kiss.

'And you were saying I was being sappy.’

'Bastard’

'Asshole'

'Love you’

'Love you too, Jackie'

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank Turner - tattoos
> 
> This is self indulgent and kinda awful bcos author is currently homeless and writing on their phone and pretty miserable tbh. Plz excuse any mistakes, a notepad app is not a writers best friend.


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